


Turkey

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Awkward Tension, John is a Mess, M/M, Pining John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tension, Turkey - Freeform, Unresolved Romantic Tension, sherlock is grumpy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: What he got, as he stepped expectantly into the kitchen, was a noise. A noise he had never heard before within the flat. A noise not made by a human.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	Turkey

After a day full of work and late grocery shopping, John finally dragged himself inside, fed up and grumpy at the busyness of London this close to Christmas. He hated food shopping as it was, but near Christmas it was worse than any other time. There were always two kinds of people, those who were fretting and rushing to stock up, and those that thought they had all the time in the world, and dealing with either of them in the Christmas season was infuriating. Especially when he was targeted by both in quick succession, their attitudes and annoyances only adding to an already stressed and seething mood. They'd shove past him, cut him off, chat in groups within the aisles, leave their baskets on the floor for him to trip over, pay for everything with vouchers and coupons that made a fifteen minute task take almost an hour, and try and spark up meaningless, circling, tedious conversations with him. Then of course, when he left, they seemed to follow, making it almost impossible for him to find a cab that wasn't packed full. The Tube was no better, an absolute no-go area, with its overcrowding and bustling mass of bodies, all crammed into one space, heading for a smaller one. So all he could do, all he had left, was to straighten his shoulders and walk home. Cursing everything and everyone he had ever met. Hating the day, the season, himself with each and every step.

Until, of course, he had seen the black door of 221. Then he hated things a little less, felt a jolt of happiness course through him instead for the thought of home, of warmth, of comfort, of space not taken up by smelly, loud, annoying strangers. Not to mention that it meant he could at long last relieve himself of the bags that were cutting off his circulation, that he could have a wee, could get a hot drink to chase away the cold and could sit down, in his chair, in front of the fireplace. 

Turning to the side to climb up the stairs with his numerous bags, trying not to topple backwards, John headed for the kitchen to unpack everything. Sherlock, he imagined, would be lurking around somewhere, just waiting for him to return so he could steal and hide the newly bought biscuits. It happened on every shopping day since he'd moved in. John would be annoyed by the immaturity of it all, if he wasn't so amused by it, if it didn't make him fonder of Sherlock. He supposed, in some way, he was looking forward to it.

Yet that wasn't what he got.

What he got, as he stepped expectantly into the kitchen, was a noise. A noise he had never heard before within the flat. A noise not made by a human. It made him freeze, every part of him tensing with an alertness borne from years of Army training. He surveyed the area, eyes darting across every counter, cupboard, and deep into the corners, before he turned to the open space of the living room and stood wordlessly, blinking in shock at the scene he encountered. At the black, beady eyes he stared into, the eyes of a large bird currently standing between Sherlock’s legs. It wasn't just any bird either, it the largest turkey John had ever seen. It was practically dinosaur sized with weird feet and dark feathers. It gave John the heebie-jeebies. Like a raptor. 

“ _What_ … I just…” he dropped the bags to the kitchen floor, trying not to do so with as much anger as he could feel boiling over inside him, and glared at the stray feathers that littered the floor. “What the _fucking hell_ is that _thing_ doing in our living room?”

“ _Language_ ,” Sherlock chastised with a quickly formed frown and reached down to take the bird in his hands quickly with an efficiency that came from experience, picking it up and tucking it under his arm like it was nothing more than a fashionable clutch bag. “It is - as I’m sure you are well aware because you aren’t _blind -_ a turkey. A female turkey to be exact. So, technically, _it_ is a _she_ , and she is a _hen_.” He smiled softly at the bird, giving a soft pat on the small head. “I, um, I chose her. Out of a flock, when she was just a poult. To eat her. For Christmas dinner. As a surprise. - Weird, I must admit, but I thought it was... interesting to be involved. - But when I went to see her today, to check on her health and... to order her death… I… couldn’t do it.”

"So you bought it _here_?" John raised an eyebrow with climbing frustration, clenching and unclenching his fists. “You've made friends with a _turkey_? That's what you've done?”

“She’s been a better friend to me than some,” Sherlock retorted peevishly and stroked down the bird’s long neck as she made a few clucks. “And I couldn’t just _leave_ her there. If I had, she would have been slain anyway, either for me or for the public. So, instead, I said I wanted to kill her myself. Persuaded the man to let me take her. He told me how to do it, gave me a few grisly tips, and she came home with me. I won’t be killing her, _obviously_. - She’s quite clever. Kept escaping apparently. That's why I couldn't do it. She had too much character. Far too much.”

“Yeah, _Christ_ , because _of course_ the turkey you picked is a an escape artist, why wouldn't it be?” John sighed, pushing his thumbs either side of his nose and pinching, hard, hard enough to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming or having a stroke. “So… you went to kill her for our Christmas dinner and instead decided to bring her home... What, so she's just going to _live here with us_? Become a part of the business? Sherlock, John and--” He gestured at the bird, giving it a disgruntled, sneering look. “Gobbler here?”

Huffing sharply, Sherlock shot him a glare, “She’s a _hen_. A female. _Not a male_. - And no, you _idiot_ , she’s not going to live here. She’s here until I can make other arrangements,” he muttered and turned his head to the turkey, leaning in to whisper to her whilst giving John a condescending smile. “Ignore him. _He’s a moron_.” 

“ _I'm_ a moron‽ _Me_?” John hissed.

"I'm glad you agree--"

Fighting the urge to either throttle the turkey, or Sherlock, he wasn't sure which, John clenched his jaw and jabbed a finger in his direction, “You're talking to a _bird_! A _bloody stupid bird_ at that! - Turkey's are _idiots_! Its well documented. You might as well be friends with a slipper or… a piece of ham!”

“ _Wrong_!” Sherlock snapped and turned to walk with his new friend, stroking dusky feathers of brown and shimmering grey. “You know _nothing_ about turkeys. Turkeys are actually _quite intelligent_. They’re extremely good at geography, can learn the intricate details of vast area, something immensely useful when they’re finding food, and exhibit problem-solving behavior, as well as being curious and inquisitive animals.” He put the bird down at his feet again, near his chair, and turned a hardened glare at John, arms folded. “And it's really quite hypocritical of you to mock _me_ when, who is it, out of the two of us, whom has arguments with machines? Yes, that’s right, it’s _you_.”

“I can't believe this, Sherlock,” John whispered in utter exhaustion, covering his face and then leaning against a kitchen counter top. “Just... just... just _why_ did you even—Half a day. That's all it took for you to decide, without informing me, to go out and bring a – _creature_ into our home!”

“If you keep attacking and _insulting_ her, I will make sure she poos on your chair,” Sherlock muttered petulantly, following the turkey as she walked around the living room, pecking at a few things. “She won’t be here for very long. Perhaps another hour or two. - You’re acting like she’s some rabid wolf that I've just dropped at your feet! She's a turkey!”

“They're _creepy_...” John sneered and threw an arm out at the bird, startling her for a moment to back up into Sherlock's legs and then hop away, “All loose skin and weird hanging bits… it's like a feathery scrotum!” He turned his back on the turkey, on Sherlock, and picked up the shopping bags violently, starting to unpack the groceries. "They attack people too, did you know that?"

“You’re talking about the _male_ turkey! Are you really so _blind_ that you can so easily _misgender a turkey_?” Sherlock exclaimed in irritation.

“Misgender a turkey?” John blinked and coughed out a laugh, then looked over his shoulder at him, “I've been accused of _a lot_ of things in my life, but being a turkey transphobe is a new one...”

"Technically not a transphobe as she's not a transgender--"

John suddenly began to giggle, cutting Sherlock off and bringing an indignant frown to his face, “I don't know _anything_ about turkeys! Other than how to cook them. I thought they all were the big testicle faced ones.”

“ _No_. The females, the hens, do not have the distinct, familiar ‘hanging bits’ that you describe. - I mean _look_ at her! You can _see_ it, you imbecile! She has some reddened skin under her beak and along her neck, but it is _nothing_ compared to the males. - In all the different breeds you can tell the females from the males. It’s not difficult!”

“Oh God, _I don't care_!” John stressed, almost dropping a carton of eggs, not something the turkey would appreciate he was sure. He glanced at her, watching the bird move with a rustle of feathers, a of clicking talons, to stand near the coffee table, eyeing up biscuits that had been left out on a plate. “Just make sure you get rid of it. I don't fancy Mrs Hudson getting the fright of her life if she calls up to see us.”

“ _Her_. And Mrs Hudson already knows. Has already, without knowing, allied with you with the opinion to get rid of her,” he huffed, moving around to pick the turkey back up. “I’m getting sick and tired of the _both_ of you. - I thought you'd both be surprised. _Pleasantly_ so. - You often think of me as being too distant and... _unfeeling_ , so I thought _you_ would be… that you would think it was good of me to do this. To save her.” 

“Yes, yes. It's _very_ commendable,” John mumbled, though softened as he looked Sherlock over and took a moment to calm himself, to try and see it from Sherlock's perspective, tried not to let his horrid mood spoil something that was actually quite adorable if he thought about it properly. Smiling at Sherlock, John turned and sighed with a gentle nod. “Yeah. It's lovely that you've saved _her_ and you obviously care a lot about _her_ well-being… but I just... I didn't expect it. Didn't think I'd come home to find a live turkey wandering around the living room. It's a bit of an odd situation, really. - Does _she_ have a name?”

“...No,” Sherlock replied and brought her into the kitchen with him, putting her on the table to caress her tucked up wings and down her long legs. “I don’t _normally_ care. I eat meat. And I know how that meat ends up in the shops, on my plate. I’m not stupid. - But when I was told about her mischief and mettle… I preferred she live.”

“She _does_ seem confident...” John huffed, wincing as he looked at those bird feet. As he thought about the amount of bleach he'd need to scrub the table with afterward. “She's the turkey equivalent of you. Just needs a long coat and she'll be set.”

Sherlock hummed and gave John a sideways glance, “She’s clean, you know. As clean as a turkey can get. I gave her feet a bit of a rinse down in the bath.”

“She's still a _turkey_ , whether she has clean feet or not. It'll be just our luck we end up with bird flu,” John griped, putting a bunch of bananas on the side, as far away from the turkey as possible. “So… what _is_ the plan with her? A farm somewhere?”

“I know someone,” Sherlock told him quietly, not looking at all pleased with John and his responses, his reactions, though his glower was weakened when the turkey gave his curls a bit of a peck. “I know _many_ people. I knew the man who raised her and I know the woman I’m going to give her to. - She won’t be killed for meat. She will live and die a free turkey… more or less free.”

John nodded and cautiously approached Sherlock, still a little bit nervous as he reached his hand out ever so gently toward the bird, “Will it – sorry, _she_ – bite me?”

“She _might_. She’s feisty,” Sherlock told him with a small bit of pride and gave the clucking turkey a smile. “Took me a bit to get her used to me.”

John took his hand back with a squinting look of distrust, leaning in closer to Sherlock and moving to step up behind him, using him as a makeshift shield in case the pecking began, “It is good though. You saving her. It's... _very_ good. - You just can't stop helping people… well, _this_ person is a turkey, but it still counts. - You're a good person, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock snorted at the compliment but looked at him, his expression open and amused, “Give me your hand, you _coward_.”

“I am _not_ a coward… I just don't want to be pecked, thank you very much!” John exclaimed, but of course he let Sherlock take his hand, thrilled at the touch, in fact. Adored how Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his wrist. “I swear, if I end up with a bloodied stump it'll be your fault.”

“You were shot. With a _bullet_. Stop being such a baby.” Keeping one hand on the turkey, stroking her feathers and keeping her from walking or jumping off the table, Sherlock then lifted John’s fingers to drift lightly down her long neck. She blinked at them calmly, watching and clucking, and Sherlock moved John’s hand down her back. “There. See? It’s _fine_.”

“It's unexpectedly soft...” John murmured lowly, tilting his head and then beaming up at Sherlock with a bubbling laugh, thrown by how utterly farcical it was, “I've never stroked a bird before… well, my mate had pigeons when I was a kid, but they're just overgrown rats with wings. This is – surprisingly cool, actually.”

“Is _that_ your apology? It’s not very good. You insulted her. _Many_ times,” Sherlock said with a slanting grin, quickly catching hold of the turkey as she turned to jump. John stepped back, unsure, but Sherlock pet and soothed her with a few low clicks of his tongue, letting her down on the kitchen tile and patting her, as if she were a dog. “She’s probably hungry.”

“Yeah, probably. Especially if you haven't fed her since you brought her here—Now, I don't know what we have that is turkey friendly, but _please_ , allow me to prepare a meal as an apology for insulting her. And calling her a man. - My sincerest apologies, Ms Turkey,” he snorted, nudging Sherlock with his hip as he shifted away. “And _you_ can eat too. I doubt you've eaten anything today, have you?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock dismissed and watched the turkey as she walked around them curiously, moving cautiously, giving a few pecks at a cupboard or two. “Give her some nuts, small fruit, seeds, worms... if you're being _adventurous_.” 

“I am _not_ going digging for worms...” John replied in a mumble, frowning as he searched through his bags and then the cupboards, to what had been left, “But... I have a bag of mixed nuts and sunflower seeds? She can eat them, right?” He fished around on one of the many shelves, knocking a few things to one side, and arched up onto his toes with a grunt before he pulled out a small bag from the back with a hum of success. Opening it after checking the best by date, not that it really mattered when it came to nuts and seeds, he poured into a small dish. “This _definitely_ has to be the weirdest thing you've brought home yet...” 

“I disagree,” Sherlock drawled and pushed close to his back when John put the dish down on the floor for the turkey to wander up to, inspect, and peck at. “Though she is definitely the most _alive_ thing I’ve brought home…”

“Yeah… and the least smelly,” John added, leaning slightly, guardedly, into Sherlock's body heat, enjoying the earthy smell of the outdoors that clung to him. “I'm... I'm glad that you didn't let her get killed. I am. I'm sorry I was so... negative and... yeah, it's good, Sherlock. You did good. - Even with the... the dinner idea. The special, if weird, way in which you planned it... picking the turkey out personally and keeping up to date with the health and... yeah, that was nice of you.”

Sherlock, after a long moment of hesitation, stepped closer and put his chin down on John’s shoulder, “Mm. I’m sure she's glad too. - Perhaps more so when her feet touch grass,” he murmured. “Until she has to take part in the pecking order…”

“She's a survivor,” John said quietly, “She'll be running the place in no time.” Having Sherlock so close, just a hair's breadth away, was too much of a temptation, too much for John to ignore, and he turned to nose at his warm, soft curls, leaning in to press a tender kiss on Sherlock's forehead. His temple. The peeking helix of his ear. He wanted to kiss every part of him. Just everywhere and never stop.

"John." Reaching a hand for his jaw, Sherlock stroked up to cup his head and stepped around to push into his front, knocking John back a few steps until he bumped into the fridge and they were nose to nose. “What’s our pecking order?” 

“You know you're the boss,” John scoffed playfully, looking at his lips and wanting. He should talk though. Talk about things, about them. “In every way possible. I'm your trusty number two.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “In _every_ way? Not so sure about that...”

“You are. Absolutely,” John said quietly, nudging against Sherlock's chin, sinking into that need for him. “You're in charge… something you make _abundantly_ clear whenever you send me across the room for something you could get yourself.”

“I may be in charge when it comes to our work-life, yes, but our domestic life… is all you.” 

“Fine, whatever, we have _balance_ then. We balance work life with domestic life and balance friendship with...” John trailed off, throat closing up guiltily at the obvious lie and winced, glancing into Sherlock's face, at his tightened lips and tense smile. "Well, it's... it's, uh, it's getting there... at least?"

“...Yes,” he replied and gave John’s mouth a fleetingly glance as he reached up with a long arm to get down another dish and fill with water, all without moving too far from John. “She'll be thirsty too.”

“I am _trying_ , okay? I'm really trying to... to get this... to get through things. This isn't easy for me, and you _know_ that. - Please, Sherlock, just... just try and... try and understand it from my point of view. Try to get how difficult this is. How much is on the line and how it would--” John sighed sharply and curled his fingers into Sherlock's shirt, wanting to take it off and press their torsos together, to be naked with him. "I don't want to lose this. _You_. Things were bad for me, in the past, as you know _obviously_ , and if... if something changed or went wrong or... if certain things ended up not being anything at _all_..."

" _Stop_."

"No, we _need_ to talk."

" _No_ ," Sherlock muttered in raising irritation and knocked their noses together, eyes narrowing and lips turning down into a crumpled pout. "It's _really_ best we don't. - You would only repeat yourself, unnecessarily, and tug us around in the same circles. Just take this as it is, John. Just... enjoy it without question. We might die tomorrow, as people say. So does it _really_ matter?" John searched Sherlock’s face, hating how much his heart beat at their closeness, at how his breath hitched and skin heated, it made it difficult to argue, to think at all. As usual. Sherlock was a blurry mess but he still wanted him, wanted every part of him, and he was sure it showed on his face, had always shown, because Sherlock blinked and cradled his head in two, shaking pale hands to kiss him.

“It does a bit...” John said against Sherlock's lips, unsure whether it was even audible as he grasped for him.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” John replied, “I promise I won't always be... like _this_. - Insane. Unsure. - It'll get figured out... ”

Humming huskily, Sherlock tipped John’s head so the next kiss was deep, was wet, was hot, yet stopped, tensing with disgust and amusement, when there was a moist, squelching splat, “She just defecated on the floor…” he muttered, turning his head in unison with John to look at the innocently blinking turkey, who was still pecking at her food dish, a fresh clump of feces behind her. “At least it was on the tiles and not one of the rugs?”

John glared at him, “ _You're_ cleaning it up,” he said, removing himself from Sherlock's embrace to open the cupboard under the sink cupboard for some marigold gloves, bleach and paper towels, handing them over.

"But--"

"Nope."

" _John—_ "

"Get cleaning."

He had to draw the line somewhere and cleaning up animal muck from their kitchen floor was definitely a line drawer.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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